


the other side of misfortune

by miriya



Category: RWBY
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, but more importantly light smooching, elevator shenanigans, qrow's semblance doing its thing, zine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22545607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: Ozpin firmly believes that there are, in fact, certain benefits to bad luck.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Ozpin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	the other side of misfortune

After the jolt, some cable in the space above them creaks ominously, several drawn-out seconds of _maybe_ giving way to the muffled hum of emergency lights and discordant breaths: Ozpin's, untroubled and unhurried; Qrow's, quickened by a finely honed sense of fatalistic vigilance. But there is no sharp drop, no telling sway of the floor beneath them, and after a few moments of quiet contemplation, Ozpin turns to meet Qrow's eyes in the dull red glow.

Qrow crosses his arms, and clears his throat nervously. "Which is why I like to leave through your window, hey."

Ozpin smiles, fingers curling over the cool stone pommel of his cane. "Consider this a moment of unexpected respite." It's a feeble attempt at humor, and it does little to soothe the rigid line of Qrow's shoulders or the deep furrow in his brow, but Ozpin knows better than to expect much — Qrow has never taken well to confinement, intentional or otherwise. Worse, he has rediscovered an unfortunate tendency to blame himself for each mild inconvenience Ozpin might experience in his company, one that Ozpin had hoped he'd grown out of years ago. That his semblance is the likely culprit certainly doesn't help; the tower's elevator is meticulously maintained and tested daily, and every delay Ozpin has experienced has been in Qrow's company.

Still, it hardly seems worth the trouble of getting his — _hah_ — feathers ruffled over. At least Ozpin has the grace to keep _that_ particular joke to himself.

"Better get comfortable, anyway," Qrow grouses after a few moments of stilted quiet, and Ozpin discreetly averts his eyes as he reaches for his flask. "You _know_ we're gonna be roasting in here before too long." As if Ozpin might suddenly be troubled by a minor shift in temperature. He lifts his head, listens to the familiar electric pulse of the tower surrounding their temporary prison, and breathes in the faint scent of stale whiskey and nervous sweat while he waits for the words Qrow has been circling since the first flicker of lights overhead signaled trouble.

"Guess it's your bad luck now, too," Qrow mutters, like he's answering that unspoken thought. 

Ozpin had wondered not so long ago, when his sensible caution had truly begun to falter beneath the weight of Qrow's soft-eyed smiles and thoughtful little gifts and _just because we're gonna save the world doesn't mean we can't have something for ourselves too_ s, whether or not his acceptance might trigger a … gentling of sorts, some erosion of the steep ledge of self-loathing Qrow is still so ready to throw himself from at the slightest provocation. If Qrow might realize better of himself, knowing that he has someone who thinks the best of him. 

He supposes he should have known better. (Perhaps he could stand to be more direct, but Ozpin prefers to save his hypocrisy for when it matters most.)

"Hardly," Ozpin says with deliberate lightness. "If being granted a few more moments to spend with you is considered misfortune, it's safe to say I'm doing quite well for myself." He watches the impact of his words on Qrow, catches the way dark eyes widen and glitter in the lurid light, and how that startled stare darts away as Qrow scrambles for some sort of denial.

Rather than wait for him to find one, Ozpin reaches out, resting his hand on the wiry span of Qrow's tensed forearm. The gesture still doesn't feel quite natural, despite the honesty behind it — no more natural than Qrow's renewed need to hold himself personally responsible for even more than usual. An inevitable side effect of re-learning one another's boundaries in the context of _involvement_ , perhaps. One he hopes will pass quickly for them both. "Even if it might get warm." 

He'd discovered years ago that touch could ground Qrow when words were not enough — there's no need to be sparing with it now, nor does Ozpin particularly care to be. Qrow's shoulders slump in response, and Ozpin wishes he was better equipped to soothe the guilt in his expression when Qrow lifts his head. "Sorry 'bout this, Oz. I know you've got shit to do." No concern for what the delay will do for his own travel itinerary; how very like him.

"Don't be." Ozpin means it; this is a minor hindrance and nothing more, made more than bearable by the fact that he's with Qrow. Were he not so insistent on shouldering blame for the residual effects of his semblance, he would surely see that, too. Ozpin lifts his hand from Qrow's arm to his face, fingertips resting light against the soft spot behind the hinge of his jaw, stubble rasping against his skin as he glides his thumb over the arch of a cheekbone. "Besides, I was not yet ready to bid you farewell. It seems a small price to pay, yes?"

"You say things like that," Qrow murmurs, turning his face into Ozpin's palm like an affectionate puppy (and oh, but it's one of the myriad ways Qrow both breaks his heart and draws him closer, how hungry he is for love, how brave, how loyal, how wonderful—), "and you make me want to believe them."

"As well you should," Ozpin says, pleased to feel some of that tension subside. He means this too, because between unusual spikes of Grimm activity in Anima and the need for eyes on the newly-christened winter maiden, it feels like he's seen less of Qrow recently than he has in years. A distance felt all the more profoundly for the memory of kisses interrupting the cadence of once-formal private debriefings and hasty dinners tucked into the corners of quiet cafes before Qrow needs to be off again, sharpened by the newness of attraction — not just recognized, but acknowledged. Reciprocated. 

Selfish as it may be, Ozpin can't bring himself to feel ashamed for indulging in a few more moments to belong to only _them_.

Qrow closes his eyes with a quiet hum, and Ozpin knows there will be no more apologies. "You know, Qrow," he says, a hint of mischief in his voice, "many fantasize about precisely this scenario. I believe I understand why, now."

"Know a thing or two about that, myself." Quiet. A little rough-edged, but Qrow is smiling as Ozpin leans in.

"All the better, then."

Idly, Ozpin wonders if those fantasies involve kisses quite so soft as the way their lips meet now, like they have all the time in the world. It's hardly worth considering; he doesn't need to imagine Qrow here, the last of his hesitance melting away as he steps in closer, hands dipping below the fall of Ozpin's jacket to curl against his waist, pressing him up against the smooth wall of the elevator until the rail digs into his back. It's worth it to feel Qrow returning to the way Ozpin likes him best: honest and unashamed of it, bold but not _demanding_. Most often, he is an easy man to love, and Ozpin does so without regret.

A knee slides between his own, Qrow's mouth dipping from Ozpin's lips to the side of his throat, a warm wash of quiet, knowing laughter against his skin when the scratch of whiskers and teeth leaves him shuddering and momentarily breathless. He curls his fingers into Qrow's hair, partly to anchor himself, partly because it's just _nice_. Wiser, too, should the elevator lurch back into motion — no need to tempt fate or wayward semblances with bitten tongues, though Ozpin doubts he'd be able to regret that, either.

For the moment, it almost feels like they're truly alone.

-

A sudden burst of bright light startles Ozpin from behind his closed eyelids — the ambient sound of the lobby flooding in as the elevator's door opens smartly, whisper quiet. Qrow's hand, splayed possessively against the bare skin of his back, twitches in recognition and Ozpin opens his eyes to see panic replacing the hungry look on Qrow's face.

Atlas technology, as efficient and unobtrusive as promised. 

Overhead, the floor bell dings pleasantly. " _Oh_ ," Ozpin breathes, and he barely hears himself over the familiar rumble of a cleared throat.

And then the pressure of Qrow's body against his own is simply _gone_ , replaced by the dart of a feathered form, a squawk of indignation and the hiss of feathers as Qrow flaps his wings for lift and makes a bid for escape. From Ozpin's perspective, it looks like a valiant effort: Qrow attempting to wheel in the cramped space with a momentum he doubts he'd ever witness in the wild, glossy black wings colliding with the wall overhead. An erratic trajectory salvaged by a corkscrew maneuver — but not quite enough to save him from a headlong crash into the floor display just above the elevator's control panel. 

A quiet, rasping croak follows the graceless _thump_ of a feathered body hitting the floor.

Ozpin wipes delicately at the corner of his mouth as he watches Oobleck scamper up next to Peter on the other side of the threshold, feeling every inch as dishevelled as the junior professor looks. Beyond them, less patient students are already beginning to mill closer, drawn to the open doors as an obvious indicator of renewed service. He smooths his waistcoat over his belly and hopes the rucked up hem along his spine is concealed sufficiently by his jacket.

He bends down to scoop Qrow's dazed form into his arms, gentle as he cradles his head in the crook of his elbow. "Professor Port," Ozpin says, and smiles benignly. "Doctor Oobleck. I do hope no one has been inconvenienced."

Peter's mustache twitches as his companion finally seems to notice Ozpin. Oobleck's mouth opens to speak, but he closes it a moment later, darting forward to instead examine Ozpin's feathered burden. "Headmaster! I must say — what have you got there? A bird? A corvid! Was it— _oof._ " He's cut short by the sound of Peter's booming laughter as he smacks Oobleck between the shoulderblades with a meaty thud. 

Ozpin wonders if he should be grateful or wary of the rescue.

"My dearest colleague," Peter chortles, "clearly we see before us the fruits of a most successful hunt. _Most_ successful, I assure you, proof of the tenacity of a master huntsman! Why, I remember when I was a younger man, I—" 

The alarmed, disoriented croak of the bird in Ozpin's arms draws his attention away from the details of the story, and he's careful as he delicately resettles a wing that's rather haphazardly splayed over his forearm. The less attention the better; if there's any relief to be had in the moment, it's that he knows he can trust Peter to be discreet. There will be gossip about Beacon's headmaster being trapped in a malfunctioning elevator with an injured bird, but Ozpin imagines there are more than enough tales of his eccentricities to let the memory fade into background noise by tomorrow morning.

For now, at least, he has somewhere else to be — preferably well away from a tale that's already degenerated into Peter's no-doubt embellished pursuit of a faunus woman before he says something Ozpin will certainly regret hearing, and Oobleck's look of dawning distress. "Good evening, gentlemen," Ozpin murmurs politely and steps past them, into the tightening gauntlet of students beyond. There are a few gasps of surprise, a few more coos of worry, but any would-be veterinarians are held at bay by the bird's occasional grumbles and snapping beak. Most importantly, there are no indications that any of his students happened to catch sight of a Signal instructor kissing him silly in an elevator, much less shapeshifting in the aftermath.

"We _will_ need to talk about that," Ozpin murmurs as he passes beyond the tower's glass doors and pauses to look over the relatively quiet plaza ahead. "While I appreciate your sense of discretion, I would rather not see you incapacitated in the process."

Qrow rattles something incomprehensible and punctuates it with an annoyed click in his throat. Ozpin huffs a quiet laugh, and takes the opportunity to stroke the sleek black feathers cresting Qrow's head. "Well," he says cheerfully. "I believe you'd best delay your departure until morning — for observation's sake, of course. How fortunate for us both, my dear Qrow."

Judging by the way he cranes his head against Ozpin's fingertips, it's a conclusion even Qrow can no longer argue.


End file.
